the cassandra pages

Up and Running

Yes, that's my computer, undergoing cardiac surgery without benefit of anesthetic. The little screws holding it together were swiftly removed, the faulty power supply pulled out, a new motherboard whisked out of its protective plastic wrapping and inserted into the old case. All the while, the genial Romanian technician, making a house call, talked with us: J. picked his brain for obscure information, I held my breath and tried not to be shocked at the volume of dust and hairballs he pulled out of the old assembly. "Yeah, that's what kills power supplies, 9 times out of 10," he said, laying the offending balls of brownish-grey fluff on the table top. "But you're still on warranty." He smiled at me; I grimaced and told him I thought surely my keyboard would go first, from all my banging. "Nah," he said, "they're pretty durable unless you use a lot of cream and stuff on your hands." I'm not so sure - on my old desktop machine I went through two keyboards and was well on my way to destroying a third when J. bought me this laptop, which feels now like an extension of my body. No wonder it was traumatic to watch the operation!
--
That was a few days ago; actually Cassandra was only out of commission for a couple of days, and we had a backup, old laptop in the wings, ready to do understudy-duty. One of my first tasks after the busy-ness of last week was to work on the summer edition of qarrtsiluni, which I'm editing with Dave Bonta. We'll still be reviewing submissions for a couple more weeks, so please send us your "short shorts" - prose or poetry of 100 words or less. We're very pleased with the quality of the pieces that have been published, and I'm especially happy to note that there are currently eight or nine excellent pieces, either published or in the queue, by writers who have never before appeared in the journal. This is exactly what we have hoped for - it's good for the writers, good for the readers, and good for the journal and an expanding readership.  I hope you'll go over there and take a look at the remarkably varied collection of work thus far - and be inspired to write something yourself.

A First-person Account

Bishop Gene Robinson preaches at Thursday evening's OutMass. (photo by J.) Click for a larger version.

A fellow Montrealer, who also happens to be a gay man, married to his partner and living courageously with HIV, has written an account of Thursday evening's OutMass. I stumbled upon this today, and was so happy to read it. The service was extraordinary - attended by about 350 people, many of whom were from the LGBT community, including many visitors to the city for the OutGames - it was joyful, moving, and a watershed event for many of the people there, who had not attended a church service or taken communion for a long time. I'm proud to have been a part of making it happen, and very happy to have been there to lend my support. Just hearing all those voices raised in song during the hymns was thrilling - the organist told me he kept adding stops, and more stops, and the voices still were almost more powerful than the huge organ itself.

If anyone hears of other accounts of this event, please let me know.

I spent yesterday with the Bishop - we took him to the Jean Talon market in the morning, where for a few hours he could wear ordinary clothes and just be a guy who loves food and color and bounty - then to an interview at the Montreal Gazette, then to an hour-long appearance on CBC's Radio Noon show, broadcast throughout Quebec - the first caller was a man driving his car in the Gaspé, who pulled over to the side of the road to call in - and finally to another book signing at a bookstore. It's been a long couple of days, but very rewarding. As we sat signing books on Thursday evening, the bishop looked over at me and said, "It must feel kind of strange -- like finally sending your baby out in the world."I smiled and said yes, it did, but that I was really happy to be doing that too.

At Radio Noon (I'll post a link to the audio later this week), the producer said that he was surprised to have received many calls during the hour from people who didn't want to ask a question, but had called just to express their appreciation to CBC for doing the show. "This often happens when we do a show on a spiritual topic," he said, looking a little bemused. Gene and my husband and I had actually been talking about that earlier: how French Canadian, Catholic Quebec, during the Quiet Revolution, had thrown over the religious establishment, emptying the churches and becoming a much more secular society - hugely so, in comparison to the United States. But that doesn't mean that people aren't still spiritual, or religious, or that they aren't hungry for a way to express this that feels authentic and honest to them (in fact you find examples of a deep religiosity and sense of moral justice in this society all the time.) The feeling of gratitude and happiness that I sensed and heard, both at the OutMass and during the radio show, therefore, didn't really surprise me: I've learned in my work that this longing for spiritual authenticity and expression is intrinsic to humanity. But it did make me very happy to be contributing something to that process.

Sunday Addendum: Today at church I heard more examples of how people had felt during Thursday's service. They used words like "transformative", "Spirit-filled", "life-changing", and "powerfully affirming". One gay man, a priest himself, told me that he had been astounded when Gene began by excusing himself from the heterosexuals in the congregation to say, "Forgive me, but I am going to address myself to my gay and lesbian brothers and sisters" and then proceeded to preach to them. "To hear him speak of our struggle, directly to us, so openly --it was a whole new experience for me." The man shook his head and smiled. "Does he always do that, speak about these things so honestly?"

"Yes," I said, "that's who he is." That's a big part of why I wrote the book, too - because not that many people have the opportunity to experience this sort of witness directly, and I've seen how powerful and how freeing it is.

I've seen it, but I can't feel it through the heart of a gay person; I can only feel it by translating my own struggles as a woman into greater understanding for the struggles of another group. Developing empathy for one another, and the universal desire for justice and freedom that human beings share - should be at the core of religious teaching, it seems to me. We go searching in religion for comfort and peace for ourselves, but the heart of all the world's religious traditions is transformation - transformation into people who have glimpsed greater peace and comfort, perhaps, but are willing to forego resting in that warmth in order to try to share it with others. This isn't a one-time thing, either, but a process of deepinging awareness that goes on and on, with peaks and valleys and times of plunging back into struggle and darkness and uncertainty.

It's the internalization and understanding of that journey - halting, painful, profoundly human - that gives certain people their authenticity and authority, much more than "saintliness." I think people may have come on Thursday expecting to hear or see someone saintly, but they found something quite different - someone quite a lot like themselves.

Out in Montreal

(photo of Bishop Robinson by J.)

Tomorrow and Friday, Bishop Gene Robinson will be in Montreal, and in conjunction with his speaking engagements, we'll be doing a couple of book events. I'd love to see any of my friends and readers of this blog - there's no obligation to buy books - it would just be great to meet you, if I haven't, and to share these events with you:

Thursday evening, at 7:00 pm, the bishop will be preaching at a special service, an "OutMass in celebration of diversity" at Christ Church Cathedral, downtown, on St. Catherine between University and Union. There will be great music by the contemporary American composer Dan Locklair, sung by the cathedral choir, and a reception afterwards with light refreshments. Books will be available there.

Friday afternoon at 4:00 pm, at Paragraphe Bookstore, 2200 McGill College (on the west side of McGill College, just south of the main entrance to the McGill campus on Sherbrooke) Gene and I will be signing books and having an informal Q&A session.

Hope to see you at one or both of these events! (A very nice interview with Gene by writer Matthew Hays was featured in this week's Montreal Mirror; Gene will be on the CBC Radio Noon show between 1 and 2 on Friday; and we expect there to be some pieces about the book and about him in upcoming issues of The Gazette; I was interviewed by Mike Boone this morning - it was strange to be on the other side of that little digital recorder!)

Computer Woes

Updated, Wednesday, 5:30 pm

Yesterday, suddenly, a black screen. Looks like the power supply. So if anyone is trying to get in touch with me, and I'm slow in responding, it's because I can only use a somewhat-hobbled older computer, and can access email only sporadically. Hoping to be back and reliably online in a few days.

It's a strange feeling to look over at that tightly shut silver case, as silent as someone who stubbornly refuses to talk. It's so much a part of me, that laptop, that I sometimes think it's attached. I can manage without it - this is a backup, older laptop I'm using - but inside the silver one are all my photos, all my emails, all my addresses and contacts, my book and all my other writings...yes, it's backed up, but I'm so used to having all of that right there, at the ends of my fingers, that it is very disconcerting. A state I hope won't last too long.

Day 10

I've decided to keep publishing this woman's letters. If you tire of reading about the war, or find it very upsetting, don't worry, I will keep writing about other things as well. But these posts convey a reality in a way I could not; I have never experienced it. Since we are in part responsible for what is happening to her, I feel an obligation to tell the truth.

Dear World

July 21st, 10th day of war

Yesterday, the television was continuously posting ads of lost individuals, asking them or whoever heard of them to contact x person, on x number. Over 30 announcements of this kind appeared. It must be terrible to wait by the phone and jump in a blast of hope every time it rings.

This  morning, the Tyre hospital announced that, due to the abundance of the deceased in its morgues, collective funerals will be held in the backyard of the hospital for the bodies that have been identified.

Today, I heard the story of an entire family that was bombed in Tyre swhile sitting at their dining table. The mother, father, children and grandparents were having their last supper before a bomb landed in their plates.

This is my second war. I lived my first one since my birth until I was 7 years of age, and I was trying to draw some of the differences between the two. One of them is that this war lacks human beings. Let me try to put it clearly.

In my experience, this war is falling on Lebanon from the sky, just like an inevitable natural calamity that you find yourself unable to stop. So far, all we have seen is planes flying and throwing bombs, as if the world has turned upside down and hell is falling over our heads. I don't even know if these planes are driven by human beings or programmed by computers.

They are fighting people and they cannot even see them. Maybe this is why it is so easy for them to bomb civilians, women and children. For them, these people are just another target, just another couple of pixels on a digital screen. As if they are trying hard to distance themselves from their humanity, to distance themselves from us.

What is happening in Lebanon is a blind war. Nobody with eyes could allow this to happen. Bush is blind, Rice is blind, Olmert is blind. (I will not name them all, I am too afraid to skip someone) Probably blinded by the camera's flashlights that transfer their empty faces on another newspaper's page, and their empty words in a long article, next to a big title that numbers and names the death quota of that day.

Fancy suits and plastic faces, what a waste! It is really, really sad for a person to look at another human being and only see him/her as some investment. For them, all the people dying here are nothing but a great investment to accomplish their wonderful intentions in creating a peaceful ( i.e capitalistic money-money-money) world.

Right now, I am facing my computer screen, expecting a terrible bombing sound at any moment. In the lobby, we have packed a small suitcase with our papers and a first aid kit, just in case we need to evacuate. We eliminated the image of the future from our heads. Luckily, electricity is available. Politicians are arguing on television while flash news of people looking for their beloved are circulating at the bottom of the screen. On the ground floor of our building, 100 refugees are awaiting the cease fire, to have the space to think about what to do with their lives. And I wouldn't trade my place for the world because at least, I still look at a human being and see a human being, rather than a suit or a dollar bill.

Whoever is reading this, I hope you are not blinded by your computer screen yet. You might think this is just another forward in your mailbox, another bunch of pixels on your screen. You can think whatever you want, but just take a small look into it.

Who knows? Maybe someday all these mails will be gathered in a very emotional book, about some girl in her house during the war. And you will buy the book for 20$, and wait impatiently to come to Lebanon and visit, with teary eyes, the house from where she wrote all of this. Ann Frank: The Revenge, what an irony. It is very easy to look back and regret. Let these mails shake you now, at least, you are still getting them for free.

Today, a dear friend told me that it is very important not to lose our sense of humor.

Love,
A Lebanese Citizen

Angelus, in the Rain

It's Saturday, 6:00 pm, and the bells are ringing at the parish church. A light rain is falling, and the cars going by splash water from the street puddles and their wheels can be heard spinning out a watery trail as they stop at the light, then go again. On the terrace, a damp India-print cloth in red, blue, and gold on beige hangs over the small table, and the tree-hibiscus holds today's five brilliant red blooms against the dark, wet, green leaves beyond.

Earlier I rode my bike to Av. Mont-Royal and did a little shopping. I finally bought a tiered, ruffly skirt, in a lovely yellow ethnic print, on sale at an import shop filled with beautiful colors, especially the silk prints in turquoise, cerise, emerald, lavender, orange. When I paid for it the clerk spoke rapidly in French and I raised my eyebrows. "En anglais?" he asked.

"Non, en français, mais un peu plus lentement, s'íl vous plait."I said.

He repeated, more slowly, telling me to wash it by hand, and add a little vinegar to the water to 'garder la couleur'." I smiled and thanked him, then stopped at a favorite bakery, the tiny Koenig-Annan, near St. Denis, for a small round loaf of olive-studded Provençal bread and two pear tartlettes, specially requested by J., who has managed to catch the cold I just got over. Two girls at the shop's sole cafe table, int eh window, were saying, Ï love you totally" to each other over their coffees. On the shop's stereo, Leonard Cohen sang, "I'm Your Man."

Just past the metro station, I stopped in, at a whim, at the huge stone-grey edifice of Saint-Sacrament, where, in the upstairs church, I discovered tall red marble columns, ornate poychromed woodwork on three levels; walls and ceilings covered with well-executed but saccharine religious paintings of saints with upturned soulful eyes, French-inspired cherubs, and scenes from the life of Jesus. I sat down in one of the carved wooden pews, along with a dozen or so other visitors, wondering what it was like when these churches were filled to capacity. On the altar ahead of us, against white linen dazzling in a bright light that contrasted wtih the dimly-lit church interior, was a gold monstrance, its elaborate sunburst displaying a white host in the center. Two candles burned on either side. I felt out of place, and didn't stay long.

When I got back to my bike it was wet, and I was too, but the clingy, soaked-through windbreaker against my bare arms felt good after the recent days of heat -- and also as I remembered walking this same route in bone-chilling February. I wiped off the seat in one fast gesture, releasing a spray of droplets; swung my leg over the back wheel; and set off toward home.

Collateral Damage

My husband's family, as many of you readers know, is from the Middle/Near East - my mother-in-law was Armenian and my father-in-law is Syrian. They met in the 1930s at the American University of Beirut (AUB), Lebanon, where he had recently graduated and was teaching. In earlier days, they described Beirut as a wonderful place - one of the most beautiful settings for a city in the world; a culture that was a true blend of west and east, ancient world and modern; and an intellectual atmosphere unparalleled in that part of the world. My brother-in-law was born there, and we still have family there. I've met many people who have also been connected to AUB, and all of them share this memory, but shake their heads in sadness at the destruction that the city endured during recent wars. It was coming back, though - until the past few weeks. A friend sent this letter, written by a Lebanese woman, speaking in a way that I imagine would be similar to the family members we still have in the country. I share it with you not because I think any of us can respond adequately, but because it speaks of the terrible cost of war on ordinary people.

Dear World

I am writing you to update you on the current situation in Lebanon.

I will not number the deceased, nor the wounded. They are too many.

I will not mention what places are being hit, Lebanon has become a non-place anyways.

Today, I will just focus on the people who are still alive. Lebanon is currently facing a huge social crisis. A quarter of Lebanon's population doesn't have a place to stay.

A friend of mine is volunteering in one of the public schools housing these people, and I went with him to see the conditions today. The school is housing 300 individuals: women, children, elderly. The volunteers are doing whatever possible to provide them with a decent daily life, but still all they eat is bread, packaged cheese, dry biscuits, and if they are lucky cooked rice and stew. There are over 50 000 people living like this in Beirut alone, this without counting the other villages and cities. The social crisis is huge, I just saw a sample of it today.

Today, a 100 people broke into our building's ground floor apartment because they have no place to stay, and our neighbors were complaining about them. I think that these people coming is a true blessing for us. Having the crisis closer to you actually makes you see the scale of it.

Over 100 villages are totally isolated from one another. Totally isolated from food sources, from hospitals, clinics or medication. People are starting to starve, children to get dehydrated. I just heard on television a phone call from the headmaster of one of the shelter schools in Bint Jbeil. The school has been bombed by Israeli forces, people are in the underground level. Over 100 people. Children have been without milk for 4 days. And this is only a sample. It has been nine days, it is too much.

The thing that tears me the most is that nobody is shaking a finger. This is not only about us. Not about Lebanon. I simply hope that this kind of suffering is the last that happens on the face of this planet.

We want to solve this. We want to look forward. The facts are that the disaster is huge. We want to channel our energies the best way possible to do whatever is needed, the best way possible.

If the fire ceases now, we might start doing something. But they don't intend to make it stop. And the International community gave Israel one more week, enough time to finish up the country.

Please human being, if you can communicate this information to the world, to shake some human being who can actually make this stop. All we have left is our hands, our heads, and the infinite possibility within.

Sorry if I was long, whatever I say will never be enough.

Please do something, all I can do is write.

A Lebanese Citizen

Interfaith Thoughts

For three years, I coordinated an interfaith group of Muslims and Christians that met on the last Tuesday of each month for meditation and fellowship, united by our desire for peace in the Middle East and in the world. It was a very rewarding effort for us personally, if not very effective on a larger scale; much was learned and many lasting friendships were made. Today, because I was missing them, I wrote this note to the core members of that group, many of whom have since gone off to other countries and other lives.

The recent fighting in Lebanon has made me think of each one of you, and wish that we could all be together to share our sadness, anxiety, and hopes for the Middle East and the world. It seems incredible that we started that group back when the second Intifada began – before Sept. 11, before Afghanistan, before the Iraq War, before Abu-Ghraib, before Guantanamo, before the demise of Arafat and Sharon, before the building of the Wall, before the threats against Iran, before this latest terrible escalation of violence – just to name a few of the events none of us could have predicted, even in our worst imaginings, when we began meeting together.

J. and I are living much of time now in Montréal, in a political climate quite unlike the United States. A thousand people demonstrated here on Sunday against the overwhelming use of force by the Israeli military in Lebanon. There is a lot of opposition to Stephen Harper’s alignment with the U.S. conservative position, and this comes partly from the fact that 40,000 Canadians are stranded in Lebanon, and partly because many Canadians live in extremely diverse cities among an international community that includes people of all religions and ethnicities. This weekend I was walking with my father down St. Catherine Street, the main shopping street downtown, which had been closed for a street fair. It was very crowded. We passed Asians giving neck massages; a bevy of young scarfed Muslim women shopping for men’s shirts; tall, dark sub-Saharan Africans; women wearing full hijab, pushing baby carriages; curly-haired North Africans; Latin American families speaking Spanish; running children chattering in Italian; even an occasional Inuit native. I looked over at my father, who comes from a small rural town. His eyes were wide, and he turned to me and said, “So many people – and not two of them are alike!”

“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it amazing? It’s the whole world.”

Living in a multi-cultural city creates people whose daily lives must, by necessity, include tolerance, understanding, and appreciation of the “other.” We realize that this is one of the most diverse and tolerant societies on the planet, here in Quebec and Montreal, but that doesn’t mean that racism and fear don’t exist – of course they do. Among the more extreme French separatists, for example, there is a definite feeling of superiority and a desire to preserve the French culture and language that sometimes feels racist and intolerant. But the society discusses this openly, and struggles to come to terms with a post-modern world where we are moving toward, not away from, the mixing of cultures.

As I think about what we might be able to do as individuals to contribute to a better world, in the face of all this military aggression and escalating violence-breeding-violence, one thing is to be more intentional about sharing the experiences that have led each of us to have a broader world view. We can talk much more openly about our travel, the people we’ve known, our interfaith friends: in fact, I think we’re called to do this. The last time I was at home in Vermont, one of the little neighbor children, a girl of about 7, came over to our back yard. “We were in Burlington last weekend,” she announced. “And we saw some really dark people there.” She was astonished, and rather disturbed; she spoke as if she had seen an exotic animal in a zoo. My Montreal neighbors would be shocked; it’s very hard for them to understand how different and how truly isolated much of America really is. It’s not this girl’s fault that she is growing up in a monochromatic place – I did too, and it was a wonderful childhood. But it is definitely our responsibility, as people who know a different world, to help younger people understand and connect with a greater humanity that’s reflective of the world we live in today. The best way to do that may be by telling stories of people we’ve known and relationships we’ve had.

On this Tuesday I am wishing we could all be together again, creating for an hour our own little utopia of friendship across differences that most of the world sees as boundaries. Instead I’m feeling grateful for the times we did share, and the way I’m able to carry that positive energy and example with me through all my days.

May God’s love be with all of you, this day and always.

Aidez-moi?

I need to provide a French translation of a 700-word press release describing my book and Bishop Gene Robinson's visit to Montreal next week. He's coming to give one of the keynote addresses at the Montreal Outgames/International Conference on LGBT Human Rights. He's also going to be preaching at a special  "OutMass" at Christ Church Cathedral, and there will be a couple of book signings - all of which need to be publicized among both the English and French-speaking communities. Is there a reader out there who could do an accurate translation on very short notice, and how much would you charge? (email me, if you prefer)

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